Standard Issue
by wilma.de.worde
Summary: 221B Ficlet One-Off. On a quiet afternoon back when the world made sense, John and Sherlock exchanged tokens to show the world to whom they belonged. Now alone and on the run, Sherlock's only anchor is the beat of cool metal against his chest. (JohnLock; Post-Reichenbach; Stream of Consciousness; appearances by other Holmeses and Mrs H; brief descriptions of graphic stuff.)


He was grateful for the barn, dilapidated as it was. The scratchy straw beneath his skin was far softer than the plots of ground he had rested on over the past few weeks, and the creaking slats above him were more roof than he'd seen in ages. He snuggled deeper into his borrowed bed and listened to the patter of the rainstorm on the ancient shingles. _Content_, he found himself thinking. _I am very nearly content._

His fingers wandered to the sturdy chain that dipped beneath his collar and he pulled the pendants out from under his stained shirt. He clutched them against his chest, his breathing eased by the cold metal beneath his curled fingers. He knew it was selfish to keep them, to have a reminder of Home when Home thought him dead and gone. No matter: he was a selfish man. He doubted anyone would deny that.

He rolled to his side, his fist pinning the tags to his sternum. He closed his eyes and imagined the prickle of hay against his cheek belonged to a worn, woolly jumper.

* * *

'These look good on you,' John had purred in another lifetime a thousand years before, naked and glistening in the soft afternoon light that streamed through the window. His fingers had toyed with the shining tags and the nape of Sherlock's neck tingled as the chain twitched against his skin.

'They _feel_ fantastic.' They did, of course, safe in John's hands or thumping gently against his sternum. In the few minutes they had spent dangling from his neck, Sherlock had felt his blood pressure decrease, his anxiety ebb away. Perhaps Mycroft was on the periphery, licking his wounds; perhaps Moriarty was just off in the wings, waiting for his next entrance. None of it mattered in that moment, tucked close together in the little room at the top of the stairs. In that moment, the world was so much smaller and better: the warmth of John's skin seeping in through his rumpled trousers, the subtle flavour of John's release rich on his tongue, the tug of a chain on the back of his neck and John's whispered growl against his lips.

'You're still wearing too many clothes, love…'

The baying of dogs yanked him from his reverie and he turned to see the faint light of torches in the distance. He leapt to his feet and dashed off through the trees, searching for water and an opportunity to hide his scent.

* * *

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend none of this was happening.

He could close his eyes and the shackles that scraped his wrists could become something else-soft scarves selected from his impressive collection, say, or perhaps the ropes they had discovered during one of Mrs Hudson's many attempts to sort out the basement flat. (That had been quite a sight: Mrs Hudson upstairs fetching biscuits and John's face as he discovered miles and miles of sleek black rope, red with embarrassment and delight; how he'd caught Sherlock's eye as he pointedly slipped a coil into the box of items they were claiming for their own, his mischievous smile.) They were rope then, slick and heavy; not cold metal but warm fibre pulled tight-tight against his skin by able, loving hands. He could see it in his mind's eye, and so it must be true.

He tasted blood, but he refused to believe it could be from anything other than his own teeth, piercing his bottom lip as John's touch and tongue and hips drove him over the edge. Soon John would lean close and ease them away, cleaning the wound with gentle licks that made his vision blur. Soon John would whisper a soft admonishment, his fingers working to free Sherlock's wrists from their vices, and he'd laugh when Sherlock growled and pinned him and lapped at his neck.

Soon he'd fall asleep. Quiet sleep, black sleep, his ear pressed to a perfect, beating heart. It had to be true.

A sharp hand clashed against his face, too large and calloused to maintain his small fantasy. A voice, jagged and cruel like grinding, rusting gears. He spat the blood from his mouth. Somewhere beneath the screeching of chains he thought he heard a jingling from deep within his pocket, Afghanistan and courage and Home.

Soon he'd fall asleep. Soon he'd be Home. It had to be true. There was no other option.

He forced a breath into his shaking lungs. And then he spoke.

* * *

It started to rain: soft, cold drops that crept beneath his collar and froze the skin of his neck. A proper London rain. God, how he'd missed it. Serbia still ached in his bones-even more so now that he'd been jostled about and pinned and screamed at-but it was nothing compared to the sharp emptiness of the past two years which now dripped off him and down into the sewer with the autumnal storm.

Back in London. Back Home. Well, _very nearly_ Home. It seemed everything held those qualifiers in his new and lonesome life.

He wiped at his philtrum, discovering a fresh dribble of blood. A second search found his lip still swollen and tender. He had to admit that getting punched by John was infinitely better than getting punched by anyone else. The truth of the matter was that being punched by John-and strangled by John and yelled at by John and, yes, eventually, being on the wrong side of John's impressive head-butt-was by far more pleasant than _anything_ that had happened to him over the past two years. Nights spent sheltered, the handful of warm beds, even the few rendezvous he and Sherrinford had managed, nothing compared to the very real touch of John's very real and_ very_ hard fist.

The evening wasn't turning out the way he had intended. Not that most things had in recent memory. No matter. At least John knew the truth now. At least there was a chance. His fingers closed around the pendants in his pocket, his thumb tracing the familiar letters. At least he was (_very nearly_) Home.

* * *

John wouldn't like it. He was certain of that fact. He might not understand seating arrangements or telegrams or rubbish sex holidays, but he knew for an absolute fact that John wouldn't like _this_. He decided not to care. He knew he couldn't get through today on his own.

He had found himself splitting John into two pieces. There was John, of course, as he was: his best friend, the man he trusted more than anyone in the world, the man for whom he'd do absolutely anything. But then something would happen, some normal, immaterial thing, and Sherlock would know that this John, The John That Was, wasn't _his _John. _His _John never avoided his gaze when something difficult needed to be said. _His _John told him when he'd gone too far instead of plastering a puzzled smile to his face and raising his eyebrows to whatever idiot was nearest. He was beginning to wonder if his John still existed-had _ever_ existed-or only remained in the safest, most treasured wing of his mind palace.

No, John wouldn't like it at all. But he needed _his_ John today. He needed the cool metal resting against his skin, hidden beneath the layers of cotton and silk and good intentions. He needed to remember the drunken promises and sweaty nights and subtle admonitions, the future he had been so close to having that now would never be. He needed evidence that his John had ever been his at all.

He felt him now, alone in the flat, as he adjusted his tie with the precision only gained from years of private school and formal dinners, felt him like a phantom limb, just a bitten-back smile in the shadows of the room and the impossible promise of later reward.

* * *

There were definite advantages to dating, he decided, even if it wasn't the sort of thing he would ever partake in again. He had missed compliments (although hers were too playful, flirty instead of straightforward, and it was difficult for him to convert statements of fact into affectionate euphemisms without some devoted forethought). He had missed the warmth of another body against him while he slept (although the texture was all wrong: soft curves where there ought to be hard angles, lilac or lavender where he wanted sandalwood and musk; and he would never rest his head on her, never feel sturdy pectorals beneath his cheek as taut ante brachium curled around his shoulders in direct contrast to the gentle kiss buried in his hair).

He did enjoy her company. He liked the way she laughed. It was all very pleasant, and he could certainly see the appeal.

Not all of it was pleasant, of course. Not that night (fourth date in, concert in the West End, dinner after) when her eager kisses (skin soft, lips plump, Moroccan oil in her hair and Cabernet on her tongue) had increased in pressure and her hand was suddenly on his thigh and (dangerous and foreign and) sliding toward the buttons of his trousers. She mistook his panic, his immediate flush, her eyes soft as he managed a stammering apology (_I-I've never been with a woman before_), oblivious to the bile rising in his throat and his raging pulse. The best lies, he knew, were always true. It was easy for her to believe him inexperienced, shy, a secret innocent hiding behind a veil of self-confidence. It fit her opinion of him to a tee.

And so he was safe. They were both still safe.

'Sherl?' she drawled behind him, and his indulgent smile slipped into place without a moment's hesitation. 'Are you hiding something from me?'

His bemusement was honest, his brow furrowing as his head cocked to one side. 'Why? What have you found?'

She laughed at that. She always did. The best lies never occurred to anyone at all. She held up her hand and he caught the glint of two familiar pendants on a tarnished chain. He refused to react, to acknowledge the sudden skip of his heart, to allow his pupils to dilate or his breathing to shift. 'You know where I found these?'

'Wherever I left them. Easy.'

'You left them in your pants drawer.'

'Possibly. Does my pants drawer interest you in some capacity?'

'Don't be coy.' She slid into his lap-too close for this conversation, too near to discovering his most treasured secret-her free hand toying with his hair as the tags dangled from her poised fingers. He thought it a good idea to wrap his arm around her and trace the seam of her shirt. 'What are John's dog tags doing in your pants drawer, Sherlock Holmes?'

He shrugged. 'Safekeeping.'

'With your pants?'

'Best place for them; I open that drawer most every day. I can only delete them temporarily, so I can remember to return them at the next opportunity.'

'And John won't mind that they've been kipping with your pants?'

'Not if you don't tell him.' He traced her cheekbone with a careful finger. Her grin broadened. Good.

'I could just take them to Mary's for you. I'll be 'round there next week.'

'And how will you explain to Mary what _you_ were doing in my pants drawer?'

She rolled her eyes. That was a good sign, too. 'It's still a bit barmy, keeping your mate's jewellery with your pants.'

'Well, you keep saying _I'm_ a bit barmy.'

'You are.' She leaned in, her breath warm against his lips. 'But very pretty.'

'Not as pretty as you.'

She kissed him with a smile.

The best lies are always true.

* * *

He hadn't thought twice about it. He never did when it came to John. All necessary data was collected and the solution was obvious. The threat would be neutralised. John and Mary, the precious life inside her, they would be safe. This time, John would understand.

Simple, really. The easiest thing in the world.

Mycroft had tried to save him from this. He would never understand how Sherlock could make such a decision without hesitation, of course. He'd never understood Sherlock's feelings when it came to John. In spite of that, he'd pulled what strings he could to give Sherlock a bit more time. Not enough-there would never be enough time-but a few months. Time to get his affairs in order. Time enough for a goodbye.

It wasn't enough of a goodbye. It wasn't the goodbye he would have chosen. But it was very nearly the goodbye John needed. That would have to be enough.

John would understand.

If he sat very still, his eyes focused on the tiny window beside him, he could force slow and steady breaths into his lungs and resist the tug at his throat, the desperate need to cry. He could sort his thoughts, folding them up with precision and tucking them away in the sturdy lockers of his mind. Mary's cool lips against his cheek. The swell of her belly against his hips. The red of her coat. John's scratchy laugh.

He closed his eyes, wrapped in the soft warmth of the memory. The goodbye John needed. The goodbye John deserved. He hoped it helped him survive once time ran out.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his jacket and wrapped around the battered tags. They fit in his fist perfectly, just as they always had. He rested his thumb against his bottom lip, his teeth worrying the nail. He'd seen him then, in that startled laugh. He'd seen his John again. Not just a shadow, then, not just something he'd imagined in the lonely nights of his exile. He was real. Real and perfect and so terribly sad. Sherlock wished he could have held him, pulled him close and kissed him and given him the goodbye _he _needed. It wasn't right, though. He knew John would tell him it wasn't right. So he had made him laugh instead. One last touch. One more comfort to keep the nightmares at bay.

Six months was a long time, knowing what was to come. Without John, it would be an eternity. He wasn't sure he was strong enough for that.

He felt the unmistakable shift of the aeroplane, the thrum of the engines as they drove down the tarmac. He slipped the chain around his neck, the metal warm from his palm. He took a breath and his blood pressure dropped, his eyes drifted shut, the world falling away as his mind offered up a patchwork of recollections and longings. Six more months. Just six. It would all be over soon.

The buzz of his mobile pulled his thoughts back to the present. He couldn't help a soft growl as he tugged it from his pocket.


End file.
